


Sir

by cr0wgrrl



Series: Outtakes & Extras for ZoyciteM's "Sammy's Time at Stanford" [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, BDSM, Bondage, Bottom Sam, Bottom Sam Winchester, Dom OMC, Dom/sub, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Public Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking, Sub Sam, Sub Sam Winchester, Top OMC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cr0wgrrl/pseuds/cr0wgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some moments are too perfect to be forgotten.</p>
<p>[Read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6041998">Sammy's First Time</a> first, which is ZoyciteM's short prequel to Sammy's Time at Stanford.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZoyciteM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoyciteM/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sammy's First Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6041998) by [ZoyciteM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoyciteM/pseuds/ZoyciteM). 
  * Inspired by [Sammy's Time at Stanford](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5661583) by [ZoyciteM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoyciteM/pseuds/ZoyciteM). 



He almost calls the scene when the boy strips down. The boy'd admitted he was a virgin to everything – scening, BDSM, sex – and everything about his attitude backs that up. But the scars across his skin say otherwise.

_Someone's_ hurt this boy before. He's willing to bet it wasn't for pleasure.

He's not sure why he goes through with it. With a stranger, there's too great a chance of triggering whatever past is haunting them, of breaking scene with a panicked or furious sub turning what is supposed to be his night out to relax and have fun into a night of unwanted psychotherapy. At the very least, he should take a raincheck, set a date where they can really discuss triggers and limits.

Maybe it's the fact that the boy still has trust left to give, that whatever left those marks hasn't broken him.

Maybe it's the surety he feels that if he doesn't go through with it, the boy will just go back to that corner and kneel defiantly until someone else comes along. He can already see some of the wolves circling around their station as it is, leering at his lamb from the shadows.

Maybe it's the way the boy wants this so badly he's trembling for it, sweet and eager and so desperate to let that "Sir" drop from his lips.

Or maybe… maybe he's just a dirty old man, and a chance like this to be some sweet kid's first everything doesn't come along very often, and something about the boy says he's worth the risk.

His doubts vanish about five minutes after the first slap of his hand reverberates across the boy's firm flesh. Did he call him a lamb? No, he's more like a colt, lithe and long-legged, learning to run: wobbly, unsure and tentative at first, but quickly escalating to a visible exhilaration. He can almost feel the boy's rush of joy in letting down his guard and allowing himself to be swept away in the sensations each slap is evoking. He can see the grace and power that the boy will someday wield in the sinews of his calves and the rippling muscles of his back.

He switches to the paddles only when his palms ache for reprieve, and only long enough for the boy to decide which _he_ prefers. To his delight, the boy chooses the intimacy of flesh-on-flesh, eagerly arching the round globes of his ass, beautiful and rosy like a peach, out after each strike in an eager supplication for more. He wonders if he could make the boy come from just the blows of his hand alone. If they had more time–

But there's still so much more he wants to do to and for the boy. It's impossible to conceive that anyone hasn't broken in this sweet boy to the glory of male-on-male sex. Impossible to conceive that he will be the first one inside his tight heat, the one to show him that he was made to be ridden hard and fast and deep until they are both crying out for relief. Impossible, but true.

Such will, such trust, bridled into submission and brought to yield by his hand, just for one night.

~*~

When it's finished, he holds the boy close, enjoying the endorphins running through both of their system. The boy curls into him with a small moan, burrowing into his side, desperate to touch and be touched. It is easy to indulge him, the way he soaks up every bit of praise and approval. It is easy to hold him close and tell him he is good, and loved, and perfect. It's easy, because for tonight, he is all of that, and more.

~*~

He says goodbye to the boy with mixed feelings, knowing he'll most likely never see him again.

The world won't be kind to Sam. He probably won't end up drugged and raped now; he could see that warning take hold in the narrowing of the boy's startled eyes. But there are other dangers, ones the boy will think he can navigate until all too suddenly he finds that he cannot.

He thinks fondly, but with worry, of the way the boy's strong independence so beautifully bowed to his commands. He is too desperate to find an authority he can trust, an authority that will take the love and submission he wants to offer. He needs to know he is wanted, wants to know he is needed. It's a weakness. It will drive him to take risks that will hurt him, trust people he shouldn't, push himself too hard, overestimate his limits, disregard his safeword. He will end up hurt, bruised, maybe even battered.

But – and this is the thing that allows him to walk away in the end – he is also sure that the boy will survive it, and learn from each mistake. He has survived the marks already placed on his skin. He can survive a few more.

Half of him wants to take the boy home anyway, to lock him up and protect him from the things that have already hurt him and almost definitely will again.

The other, wiser half knows that tonight has been a fantasy fulfilled for both of them, Erica Jong's perfect zipless fuck. Perhaps it is cowardly, but he wants to preserve that, one perfect memory that will never be tarnished by whatever came next. Tomorrow they would have to face the fact that the boy has a family who will look for him, that there would be names and social workers and a hundred other harsh mundanities under which this fragile perfect thing would wither and die.

That half understands that wild things _die_ in captivity, even when it is meant for their own good.

~*~

As the years pass, he thinks of the boy from time to time, wondering about the man he has become. Has life been kind to him? Or have its harsh realities ground down his trust, built walls around his submission?

He hoards the night away, revisits it occasionally with the privacy of his own hand, and never talks about him to anyone. He almost does, by accident, when the man he will six months later ask to marry him asks if he had ever thought about taking in a child. The question evokes an entirely unanticipated laugh, barked out so unexpectedly that it startles him into a choking cough. But by the time he has caught his breath and reassured his partner that he is all right, the question is forgotten.

The answer, of course, is yes, once, for a brief moment of madness. _Yes._

~*~

When he does see the boy, nearly a decade later, it is entirely unexpected, a face on a webcast about some boring black-tie awards ceremony after-party for some charitable cause. He is about to click through to another page when he spots him, on the left hand side of the screen, glass of champagne in one hand, arm around another man as he talks to some socialite.

He freezes the stream, rewinds it, sure it is just a trick of his imagination.

It isn't. It's the boy, Sam, and he's grown tall and wide, a colt no longer, his body perfectly proportioned. His hair is still long, but now he has the confidence to wear it trimmed back, letting the world see his expressive eyes. He wears his tuxedo like he was born to it, with grace and poise, no sign of the threadbare generic jeans and Walmart t-shirt he'd stripped off so eagerly that night.

The man standing next to him in a matching tux is inches shorter, with black hair and a serious yet sincere smile, standing in a relaxed pose that belies his constant awareness of the boy at all times. They are obviously together, so solicitously careful to stay in each other's orbit even as they chat in separate conversations.

He grew up well.

He grew up beautiful.

The camera pans away from them to other important-to-somebodies that he himself couldn't care less about. He continues to watch, fascinated, just in case it pans back.

Thirty seconds from the end, his patience is rewarded. The footage changes to scenes of guests leaving the event, and there's his boy again – two steps behind and to the left of his companion, back straight, eyes down, hands casually held behind his back. Completely innocent, except…

He _knows_ that stance. Had in fact taught it to his husband a year before he had placed a collar on his neck and a ring on his finger.

The boy, no, _man_ looks up for a moment, glancing at his companion's back, and the same satisfied smile from all those years plays across his face. Devotion, adoration, submission. If he looks close, he can see the echoes of that eager, hopeful colt from ten years ago, longing to belong. But the desperation and insecurity that had lurked under his skin is gone, replaced with maturity, poise and a confident happiness that radiates with every step.

Then he moves out of the frame and is gone.

It would be easy to rewatch the footage, ask a few questions, track the boy down. He finds, however, that he has no interest in doing so. He has his memory of one perfect encounter. Anything more would be a needless complication.

Instead, he calls his husband up, suggests they go out to dinner.

No particular reason, he says. He just feels like celebrating.

**Author's Note:**

> (Don't worry, Jimmy and Dean are totally still around, just off doing something – _anything_ – to avoid attending a stuffy black-tie gala.)


End file.
